Nocturnal Threads, image by J. Karl Bogartte
UNNATURAL PLAYTHINGS
A
glorious night of Eucalyptus and throwing cocktails, licking lips, fierce
debates, fading shadows of the sun, the sensuous acrobats persist. The grief of
loving fingers, cultivating poppies… and Pangolins speaking to the trees… Always amiss with a lantern, a lost
manuscript, emeralds defying gravity for a sudden Icarus made out of glass.
Passing through a crowded leopard.
*
The
water lilies of your body, the pleasures of a knife. Your tongue probing the
hive…
*
Pandora-shaped
weapons gathering steam, to never unkey loving messages with Lilium and Canna
providing rumors from Ecuador. Every starry night is every equestrian’s dream.
For terror and innocence. For mastery, over the impossible, formulating
question marks. The mystery of rituals without interpretation, emitting a
mirage for a secretive dialogue between sighs and signs. It all passes, in
passing through. Flesh frozen in fire. For sustenance.
*
Animal
presence, always torrential. Sleeping deep inside the wolf. Hunger is new and
much brighter than before. Tables rising out of the earth for spell binding…
*
Maven-rags
and gyroscope for future positions. Algebraic solutions over open wounds, to
dazzle the loam humming softly to “I know Hibiscus makes the skin magnetic. A
hammer enchants the bell… when I bleed. When I know you are listening. When I
speak of ether and time, as brother and sister…” without using words, exactly,
solar splinters, restructuring the sense of urgency. When Diogenes’s footprints
led the hounds through the clothing of dusk…
*
Generating
auricles for streetlights, spiders for syrup, beauty dressed in violence. In
your image, only cellular sparks in the air, pulled together for an entrance at
the margins of attraction.
Dressed
in heron and Saqqara, toward fireflies and the missing propellers in
the bridal chamber. Surrounded by ghostly thrones, exquisitely long hindlegs…
An autobiography hidden among crystals firing glances, hunting for images…
*
A
springtime of white-haired machines, black-skinned detonations, fate of the
telepathic rose “my love…” to follow the moon-riddled throat of resplendent
likeness. Both living and past, while the sirens paused in midair to breed…
*
Occult
caressing Analogies, on all fours, triangulated and pushed into friction and
arc, in passing through, spokes to undermine. Movement is to be enchanted,
delirious germinations. After the last letter, the last xyz… silting mimosa,
barking, the spinning the amorous the paradoxical absence projecting a very
long and tumultuous shadow. High-pitched and elongated. Indigo sleeps,
exhausted and filled with glowing sensations. Loom is another species. Together
they incubate. Leaving profuse messages…
*
The
sound of hybrid triangles interlocking without hesitation. All is lost for the
shuddering scent that skins you living, with acrobatic exhalation. The one that
intoxicates. Deep and searing. The rising dust liberated from its dark devious
windows.
You
see yourself fading over time, cross it out and insert desert for
parallel doll’s eyes and powdered angel’s trumpet for discourse.
In the mind, it’s circulatory. For wandering, it’s enhanced shadowing. Often, signal
is replaced by magnetic attraction, making discovery a deserted
courtyard. You are never the main protagonist, or the same. It’s not
possible with language, without a flashfire that becomes a violent erasure.
Moonlight on stilts spanning several countries.
*
Mise-en-Scène
is fleece-in-vague, the characters have gone asunder. Slipping covert. The
heroine is beside herself and precious capacity, the knife-thrower for
devotion. She observes every flicker and tic, to always see what needs to be
seen. A scattering of black wasps for eye shade, to pleasure the Lacemaker for
a timepiece of parallel matters, chasing mirror in the dark. Swallow leaps for
the window-makers, Agave throws torches. Ermine troubles empathy, powering up
widespread disasters for love. What can never be undone.
*
Acting
in accordance with stimulations of the hive. Emitting sufficient blue to
unsettle gargoyles and the words that outline a certain vigilance, to intensify
the last refuges of the most precious stones. Throwing handfuls of honey,
emitting insinuations that make your bones vibrate in the landscape lapses. To
see, what ravenous desire for light, inventing the sun…
—
J. Karl Bogartte
